The Builders

Front matter

" Not all men build alike their lives : some rear their edifice with ease, but most with an infinite labour, after many failures and bitter griefs. Only he is happy who will npt be dismayed by grief or failure, and who finds in human love a divine encouragement to raise stone upon stone till naught is wanting?' BY J. S. FLETCHER AUTHOR OF "WHEN CHARLES THE FIRST WAS KING" METHUEN & CO. 36, ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON TO MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM BREFFIT

Chapter I

I PHILIP HARFORD was going home, and as the train which had carried him from London slackened speed at the entrance to Cornchester railway station he breathed a sigh of relief, for his long journey was almost at an end. He had now but to change trains, leaving the express for the branch train which ran between Cornchester and Sicaster. The latter, he knew, would be in the siding waiting for the arrival of the express, and would start on its journey as soon as he and any other passengers who happened to be going that way had taken their seats. Then there would be a run of some ten or twelve miles through the familiar meadows and closes, and he would at last look out and see the little roadside station of Hawkesley, and his uncle, Matthew Burton, waiting in his light cart outside the gates. Then would come a drive of three miles between woods and plantations just bursting into the first green of spring, and at the end of it the old farmhouse with its open door framing the figure of his aunt, posted 2 » there to welcome him.

As he kissed her he would catch the gleam of firelight on the kitchen hearth, and smell the delicious odour of the warm food which she would be sure to have in readiness. It was a pleasant series of pictures that he thus framed as the express came to a standstill, and the comfort of it filled him with warmth as he left his carriage and walked across to the siding, where the branch train stood ready for departure. From the window of the compartment into which Philip stepped he was able to command a view of the platform, alongside which the express now stood motionless. There was the usual crowd of people there — passengers who had just left or were about to enter the train, railway officials bustling about in discharge of their duties, folks who had come to welcome or say farewell to friends, idlers who lounged about in idle curiosity.

It was a scene with which his eyes were fairly familiar, and it aroused no particular thought or feeling in his mind. Presently the express moved off again, and Philip sat down, glad that there was now nothing to prevent the departure of his own train. He was the sole occu pant of the compartment which he had chosen, and felt a vague delight in his solitude. He remembered many home-goings in which he had contrived to travel alone between Cornchester and Hawkesley, so that he might sing or whistle his delight as the train sped across the familiar country. He was too tired for such a display of feeling on this occasion, but it was still pleasant that his journey should be akin to previous journeys. As these thoughts arose, however, he suddenly became aware that a porter was opening the door of the compartment prepara tory to placing therein the wraps and baggage of a young lady who stood behind him.

Philip recognised the man as a countryman who had once worked on his uncle's farm, and gave him a cordial greeting as he stepped into the carriage with his burden. The man looked round and hailed him with surprise. "Why, deary me, if it isn't Mr. Philip!" said he. " I didn't see you at first, sir. Going to the old place, I reckon?" " Yes," said Philip. " I'm going home, Reuben." He moved some of his own belongings to make room for those which Reuben carried. " I hope you're well," he added. " Why, thanking you kindly, sir " He inter rupted himself to leave the carriage and make room for the young lady who was waiting outside. " No changing anywhere, ma'am," he said. " Straight through, thank you." He leaned through the door, looking at Philip — " thanking you kindly, Mr. Philip ; I'm very fair in health, sir. But you'll excuse me, sir — you don't look so very well?"

"No," answered Philip, "I'm not well ; I'm ordered home by the doctor — been working too hard, you know." "Ah ! " The man shook his head comprehendingly. " Too much o' that book-reading, no doubt. You mo'n't do too much o' that, sir ; you mo'n't, indeed." " Oh, I shall be all right when I've had a rest," said Philip. " There's nothing like home, you know." " Now, there isn't ! " said Reuben. " You're right, sir. And your good aunt — eh, dear, what a woman shoo is for coddling a poorly body up ! Fresh eggs, and beef-tea, and new milk, and all that there ; aye, it'll do you a power o' good, sir. It mun be very hard work reading all them books. Well, well, but shoo's off, sir ; so good-day, Mr. Philip ; good-day, sir." " Good-day," said Philip. The train moved out of the station. He drew up the window, and in the action looked inquisi tively at the young lady whose luggage Reuben had placed on the opposite seat.

She was busily engaged in examining the contents of a small bag, over which she bent with some curiosity. It seemed to Philip that the bag was filled with books and papers, and that its owner was now searching for some object of which she was not sure of the exact whereabouts. As he watched her she suddenly sighed, as with much satisfaction, and, laying hold of a book, laid it on the seat before her. She then closed the bag with a firm, decisive click, and took a seat near the window. As she stretched out her hand for the book she looked across at Philip, and their eyes met. It was early in April, and the afternoon, though bright and clear, was chilly, and the change from the warm compartment of the express to the unwarmed carriage of the local train was beginning to make Philip shiver. He was drawing his overcoat more closely about him when he caught his travelling companion's eye.

She noticed with quick feminine perception that he had no rug, and that he was endeavouring to make his coat cover his knees. Upon seeing this she at once dropped her book and laid hold of a rug that lay in its straps at her side. " I am sure you're cold," she said, still looking at Philip. " Won't you have my rug to put over your knees ? I'm not using it myself, because I'm not a bit chilly : I feel rather warm than otherwise this after noon ; the sun's beginning to make its power felt, I think. Do have it." " Thank you," said Philip, "it's very kind of you to offer it, but I won't trouble you, because I'm getting out very soon." "Oh, but it's no trouble," she answered, deftly undoing the straps and shaking out the rug. " And besides, it's possible to catch a chill within a five minutes' ride.

I heard you tell the porter you were not well," she added, as she handed the rug across to him. "When one is not well, one should be very careful." " Thank you," said Philip again. He took the rug and laid it across his knees. " That's very comfort able," he said, smiling at her, " There is a draught, I'm sure — or perhaps I feel it more than other people would." She nodded her head, still looking at him as if to examine his face with some attention. " The porter seemed to think you were doing too much book reading," she said, half inquisitively. Philip smiled. "You're wondering what that has to do with a cold," said he. " I suppose it hasn't anything ; but I've had a bad cold, and I'm rather weak. I've been in rather bad health for some time — ever since Christmas, in fact," he added, with some slight touch of self-pity in his voice.

" That must be rather unfortunate — for your book-reading," she said. " I read a good deal myself, but then I'm always well ; I don't think I could enjoy a book if I were ailing." " I am a theological student," said Philip. " My reading is not exactly for pleasure — though, of course, there's a great deal of pleasure in it." The girl looked at him with a sort of half-veiled amusement. " Of course," she said. " There must be — I suppose theology can be made very interesting. I am a student, too, but not of theology." She took up her book from the seat with a touch that was almost a caress. " I suppose," she said, looking at Philip with a glance that was half-wistful and half-defiant, " you would think this book not quite the thing for a woman to read ? " Philip took the book from her hand and glanced at its title.

He laid it down with something of an inward shudder. It was as if he had suddenly set foot upon a poisonous snake. He looked from the book to its owner and found her eyes still fixed upon him with the same half-defiant, half-wistful expression. " I see you do think so," she said, taking the book into her hand again. " I— I haven't read it," answered Philip. " I have heard of it." " It is a very interesting book," she said musingly, her fingers turning over the leaves as with a desire to linger about them. " It explains — things." " There are some things," said Philip, unconsciously re-echoing the stern dogmatism to which he had been accustomed all his life, " which we have no right to wish explained. Besides, man cannot explain ; he can only guess ; and to guess at — at such topics as I understand are dealt with in this book is — well, sinful."

" But is it sinful to wish to know what really is true ? " she said, still watching his face. " Everybody may know what is true," said Philip readily. "The Bible is open to all. If men and women were satisfied with that, nobody would write such books as the one you are reading." " But there are some people," she answered — " some people, you know, who can't — well, who can't quite accept what the Bible " " Oh ! " said Philip. He drew himself up with a pained gesture and turned his head towards the window. He was hopelessly at a loss what to say next. All his life had been passed in the exercise of a rigid orthodoxy under the training of men and women who believed in its hard and fast rules. He had given unquestioning obedience to their precepts and instructions. For two years he had been pre paring to take upon himself the serious duty of im pressing similar instructions and precepts upon others.

He remembered as he turned away from the girl's face that he had never actually come across unbelief or doubt in a human being ; he had only heard of them as things to be fought against. His own range of reading was limited ; there had been no opportunity in his life for forming literary tastes. But he had heard of the book just presented to him, and knew it for an insidious attack upon the creed which he professed — a book that destroyed faith by explaining the mysteries which faith had so far veiled. " I ought not to have said that," said the girl pre sently. " Please forgive me — it didn't strike me at the time that it might not be exactly pleasant to you. You see," she continued, with a smile that was half mischievous, " you're not a minister yet, and I thought— well, I thought that perhaps — — " " Yes ?

" said Philip. " Perhaps— what ? " "Well, that perhaps you were accustomed to the study of these perplexing questions. I know more than one theological student who takes great interest in them." " They are evidently not of our connexion," said Philip. He sat looking at her with some wonder and doubt in his mind. " Why should we perplex ourselves about things that were settled for us long ago ? " he said. " Truth is always truth." " Ah," said the girl, " but what is truth ? " Philip was about to reply with fervid energy, for the instinct of the apostle was growing strong within him. But he saw that the girl had reopened her book and was already deep in some passage that attracted her whole attention. For a moment he wondered whether he ought not to say a word in season. Here was evidently a precious soul in doubt and wonder — was it not his duty to stretch forth a hand to draw it into the narrow way ?

Something forbade or discouraged him — he could not tell whether it was natural diffidence on his own part or a dim feeling that his vis-a-vis knew more of great subjects than himself. He glanced at the face bent over the heterodox book and recognised it for the face of an educated woman. The forehead was low and broad, the eyes clear and deep, the mouth and chin firm and decided : he was physiognomist enough to know that here was an intellect superior to his own. He felt that if it came to an argument he would have the worst of it. And yet he felt that he was right — there could be no doubt of that — and that she, however brilliantly she might talk, would be wrong utterly wrong. The girl suddenly looked up from her book and met his gaze. She smiled as a man or woman smiles who wishes to begin a confidential conversation.

" Now here's something," she said. " He says " — she tapped the open book with her fingers — " that heredity and environment have everything to do with character. That's what I've always said. You must take hereditary influence into account, and your en vironment must have its effect upon you. I'm glad he agrees with me there. But what do you think ? " Philip moved uneasily in his seat. " I — I don't know," he said. " I'm not a student of science — -I'm a student of theology. I believe that all men are born in sin, and that it is only saving grace that can make them other than what they originally are." " But don't you think that there is a good deal of difference made by our different surroundings ? For instance, do you think it is as easy for the human being who lives amongst vicious surroundings to be good, as for one who has no temptations put in his or her way ?

" " We are all born in sin," answered Philip. He felt a faint consciousness that the answer was weak, but it was the only one which his experience suggested to him. The girl shook her head. She looked at him with a curious air, as if she were trying to answer some question that had shaped itself in her mind. " Do you know," she said, " I think you're wrong there. Please don't think it very rude of me to say so, but I do. I don't think I was born in sin, for instance. I think I am just what Nature made me, and I have to thank my early influence and my surroundings so far for what I am at present. I daresay if I'd been born and brought up in a Whitechapel slum, amongst dirt, and disease, and dishonesty, I should have been — well, something very different. But, you see, I wasn't. I was born of clean-lived folk and brought up in a clean atmosphere, and so I'm naturally what I am !

" Philip shook his head. " It makes no difference where we were born, or who our parents were," he said. " We are told that we are all children of wrath and need conversion. I suppose," he added, " that you think these new teachings" — he nodded, half contemptuously, at the book on the girl's knee — " will regenerate the world ? " " No," she said, " I don't say so. But I think that knowledge is the surest step to truth, and that it's only truth that can make us free. I think that what those who think with you call faith is very often a dependence upon something that won't or doesn't help you when the time of need comes, and that man's real help is to be found in the cultivation and exercise of his own reason." " It's wrong ! " said Philip. " It's wrong ! " He was inwardly chafing at his own impotence.

This chance acquaintance, woman as she was, was capable of making him feel his own imperfection, and a dull resentment rose in his mind because of it. He had lived all his life in narrow limits, and had never questioned or heard others question the dogmas with which he had been made familiar from childhood, and it vexed him now to hear question made of them and feel that he was powerless to answer. He felt that if he did his duty he would reprove his fellow-passenger for the words she had spoken. He knew men, not much his senior, who would not have hesitated to speak that word in season of which he felt assured she stood in need. But he could not speak : some thing in the girl's clear eyes, in the candid expression of her face, showed him that she was honest in what she said. "It's all wrong!" he exclaimed again.

"It's very clever, no doubt; but I'm sure it's wrong." She looked at him with a thoughtful expression. " But how are you sure ? " she said. " What's truth to you may not be truth to me, you know. After all, I'm I — and you're you. And if your rule of life makes life liveable to you, does it matter if a different rule makes mine liveable to me? We've all got to settle things for ourselves, haven't we ? " Philip again made no answer. He sat looking at her, silent, wondering. When she saw that he had no intention of speaking, or could find no words with which to reply to her question, she smiled, and turned to her bag and taking out a book opened it at a marked passage. " Did you ever hear this ? " she said : It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishment the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.' " The train was slackening speed.

Philip turned to the window on his left. With a great gladdening of the heart he caught sight of the familiar scene that he had pictured more than once during the previous twenty-four hours — the great beeches, the winding village street, with the spire of the church, the roof and gables of the hall, the red-roofed farmstead rising above the hawthorns, and at the station gates his uncle's light cart and its owner's cheery face on the platform. He sprang up hurriedly. " This is my station," he said. " Thank you very much for the rug ; it was kind of you to lend it to me. And " He was scarcely conscious of what he meant to say next. The door was open already and his uncle was peering anxiously within the carriage. "Ah, there you are, my lad ! " said he. Philip looked at his fellow-passenger.

She held out her hand with a charming frankness. " Goodbye," she said. " We've had quite a talk, haven't we ? " " Yes," said Philip hesitatingly. He turned to her from the platform. " Goodbye," he said, " I wish " But he had no time to say more. The station-master shut the door with a bang, the guard blew his whistle, and the train moved away. Philip turned to his uncle. The farmer nodded his head in the direction of the departing train. " Friend o' yours, lad ? " he inquired. " No," said Philip. " It was a young lady who lent me a rug at Cornchester — 1 was feeling chilly. We got talking about books. She seemed rather clever — I should think she's a governess or a teacher by her conversation." " Ah ! " said Matthew. " Aye well, we'll be getting home, lad. The missis'll be waiting tea for us.

Tell thee what, Philip, thou's a bit pasty-faced, lad. We mun hev some beef inside and fresh air outside, eh, what ? " Philip laughed. " I shall be all right soon," he said. " I have been ill, but a week or two at home will set me up. Why, it does me good already to see you and old Bonny." II They had reached the light cart by that time, and while Matthew arranged his nephew's luggage at the rear, Philip stroked the old horse's nose, addressing it with something of companionship. Then they climbed into the cart and drove away through the winding street of Hawkesley village and into the open country beyond. To Philip, then accustomed to the sedentary life of a theological college, and lately immured within the four walls of a sick room, that homeward drive was full of a delight all the greater because it reminded him of the old days wherein he had roamed the woods and fields which now presented themselves to him under the golden glow of the April afternoon.

He sat at his uncle's side, looking out on the fields and meadows, and taking silent observation of the various landmarks and objects of recollection that came into view as the old horse jogged its way along the narrow lane. He noted the fresh green that was slowly steal ing over the hedgerows close by, and on the woods and coppices in the distance ; he looked with a lover's eye at the fields, and blessed them for the promise of spring. A sudden flush of colour came into his cheeks as he heard the first faint bleat of a lamb, and he half laid his hand on the reins as the cart turned a corner and brought him in view of a paddock wherein half a score ewes kept jealous guard over their day-old off springs. " Late 'uns is them," said Matthew. "We've gotten a hundred and fifty and two at home, lad — rare fine 'uns they are, too.

But we've lost some — aye, we'd a baddish time, t' fore-end, but we mo'n't complain, thank the Lord." Philip devoured the sights and sounds around him with hungry eyes ; it was all so peaceful and still after the roar and noise of the city. He was so filled with a holy satisfaction at the mere aspect of the sloping uplands and quiet woods that he was loth to talk. But when they came into Darthington village he relapsed into complete silence. There had been a time when he thought it unlikely that he should ever again look upon the familiar objects on which he now gazed. He drew a long breath as he looked about him. There was the little chapel, perched on the hillside, and there, peeping over many an intervening belt of chestnut and beech, the grey tower of the village church. Old John sat in his cottage doorway, just as he had sat every fine afternoon ever since Philip could remember anything.

The blacksmith was hammering at his anvil ; a horse waited patiently to be shod in the yard outside the smithy. There was the usual group of loafers outside the inn — the land lord in his shirt-sleeves ; a groom that had called at the door for a pint of ale ; the carpenter, who had come across for his afternoon drinking ; the village ne'er-do-well, lingering at their heels, in hopes that one or other would ask him to drink. And high above the gables of the hall, circling in twos and threes about the topmost twigs of the high trees, black dots against the mellowing sky, hovered the rooks, whose voices Philip had dreamed of more than once at times when it seemed doubtful whether he would ever see the brown land and the red roofs again. He looked at the wheeling figures and listened to their harsh notes, and turned from them to see the great ash tree that stood sentinel over the old farmstead, and beneath it the open door and his aunt waiting there to welcome him, and behind her the red gleam of firelight, and the faces of men and maids eager to catch a glimpse of his own.

It seemed to Philip that the evening passed as in a quiet and serene dream. There was the pleasant meal in the cosy parlour, sweetened by his uncle's earnest admonitions to play a good knife and fork, and after it the confidential talk over the cheery fire, while Matthew's pipe made a dusky glow and Mrs. Burton's needles kept up a continual musical click. There were excursions, too, into the kitchen, whither Philip repaired to exchange greetings with old ser vants, and, on his aunt's part, to Philip's room, where a fire had been lighted and hot bottles placed in the bed. And at last the evening came to an early end with family prayers, over which Philip, in view of his ministerial dignity to be, was called upon to preside, and then the good-nights, and his aunt's warm embrace, and he found himself in his old sleeping chamber, smelling of lavender and dried rose leaves, and all about him a wonderful silence.

Philip was tired and sleepy. He lingered by the fireside, winding his watch and thinking over the events of the day. " That was a strange young woman that I met in the train," he thought. " I should like to have had more conversation with her. And yet, perhaps, it's dangerous to converse with such. What were those lines she read to me ? — ' I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. They seem to sing in my ears somehow. I must try to think what they really mean." Then he knelt down to say his prayers. When he came to the words, " And deliver us from evil," he paused and began to think and ponder. Suddenly weariness overcame him and he slept, still kneeling by his bedside. He woke at last with a start and looked about him. The candle had burned to its socket, and the fire had died away to a handful of grey ash.

Chapter II

I PHILIP slept soundly that night, and did not awake on the following morning until a late hour. He rose hastily and threw open the window. The fresh smell of the earth came to his nostrils with grateful fragrance, blended with the scent of spring flowers in the trim garden below. Delightful sounds met his ears : the cawing of rooks, the bleating of lambs, the varied notes of blackbird, thrush, and linnet, singing in the apple orchards. He dressed to this accompaniment of melody and went downstairs humming a tune. Mrs. Burton, to whom the morning was half gone, stood by the hearth, busied with preparations for the invalid's breakfast. Over her blue print gown she wore a large white apron, and on this she wiped her hand ere she held it out in greeting to her nephew. Philip kissed her cheek.

"You look younger than ever, aunt," he said, gazing at her admiringly. " Why, I don't feel old yet, my boy," she answered, " but I'm getting on for all that. Now then, sit you down, Philip, and eat your breakfast. Your uncle's been out and about these three hours — he'll be in for his drinking before long. How are you feeling this morning ? " She came to his side, and, turning his face to the light, looked at it critically. " I don't like your pale cheeks, my boy," she said, releasing him, " and I don't like that dark look under your eyes. You've been at your books too much, Philip. Your poor father was just the same. Now, there'll have to be no book-reading while you're under my care, unless it's just a look into a book for pleasure. I know what I'm going to do with you. It's fresh air, and new milk, and fresh-laid eggs, and plenty of good beef and mutton, and some real home-brewed, and a drop of sound port wine now and again that you want — do you more good than all the doctor's stuff that ever was made."

" I shall grow as fat as an alderman," said Philip, laughing. " Aye, and a good thing too, lad," said Mrs. Burton. " Now then, draw up and fall to. You must amuse yourself wi' the newspaper while you're breakfasting. I can't stop to talk to you, for it's churning day, and we're as throng as Throp's wife." Philip sat down to his breakfast with a sigh of deep content. He picked up the county newspaper, and as he broke its wrapper looked at the familiar objects about him. How well he remembered every thing that he saw ! — the old clock ticking against the wall, the great flour-bin, the brass warming-pan with its lid polished to the brightness of the sun, the quaint chairs with their rounded seats and spindle frames, the shining pewter ranged above the chimney piece. From these things he turned to the table.